Rooftop Tornado

This is the story of a pie, a roof, and a very windy city.

Let's start by closing our eyes and pretending that the weather in San Francisco is pleasant. Pleasant enough to throw a rooftop party in August. Those smug Mission-ites seem to think (among other things) that they live in a lollypop land of fantasy weather with unicorns flying through the white poofy clouds, sun beams flowing through gently rustling curtains and soft breezes caressing your face.

I have been to the Mission a total of 3 times so far this summer. Once to look at real estate. Once to hang out in Dolores Park (Dolores Park pre-burning man. Bad idea. Topic of another blog entry.) And once again to attend this rooftop party. All visits: cold, windy, un-predicatable. Just like the rest of the city. But with a higher volume and mix of annoying people.

Not long after I woke up on Saturday morning, I realized that I was supposed to bring some sort of "dish" to this party. I had a couple of hours. The coffee was brewing. I decided to bake. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, I was rolling out a pie crust and putting together the pieces of a somewhat elaborate mocha-brownie-pudding-pie. Despite my rushed state, the pie ended up looking pretty damn good and when I finally arrived at the party, I set it onto the table with pride.

It couldn't have been more than 15 minutes that passed, I was attempting to mingle, eat and keep the hair out of my face all at the same time. The wind was kicking up and it was one of those winds where people actually were compelled to acknowledge it's presence, "wow, it's windy." Yes, you are very observant. The occasional napkin or paper plate was seen circulating through the air, but my pie in it's tin pie-plate seemed safe enough. Or so I thought.

Until the rooftop tornado hit. It was a gust that nearly took down a couple of palm trees. It came out of nowhere, grabbed my pie, and threw it to the ground. Face down. A look of horror came over my friend Tim's face, "Pam, your pie!" I wanted to cry, but I quickly replaced the feeling of grief with an intense and bitter hatred towards the wind, and maybe even San Francisco as a whole (just for a few minutes). Tim helped me salvage some of the pie; it wasn't pretty, but people actually still ate it. That was a couple hours later, after everyone was drunk.

I believe that I am permanently scarred from this episode. While the wind has never made it to my list of favorite things, I am now convinced by its capacity to ruin otherwise delightful activities. It wrecks bike rides, destroys picnics, makes reading in the park virtually impossible, and so on. It used to be a general animosity, but now it's personal. Nobody throws my pie on the ground and gets away with it.